Forever
by Lalaith Quetzalli
Summary: He once thought he had the world, but then he lost it, lost the world… his world. He once thought he had lost everything, that there was nothing in the world left for him, only to discover a whole new world of possibilities. Two Lives… One Love… He knows it may not last forever, but who wants forever anyway? (References to Downey Jr. and Mr. Holmes movies)
1. Part 1

For Sharon and Red, who bid for me in the Fandom Trumps Hate 2018 Auction. I know we've had some trouble communicating my dears, but I still hope you'll enjoy my final work. I've enjoyed so much participating in this auction and hope to repeat this experience in the future.

Now, this fic does follow a prompt, somewhat, it's as follows:  
 _It's for a Sherlock AU based loosely on the movie Forever Young. John's a soldier in the late 1800s (like in Canon) and he's friends with the Sherlock of that time and vaguely in love with him but because of social reasons he never ever let's Sherlock know. Sherlock does his reichenbach stunt and John is heartbroken. He expresses his desire to essentially die to a friend and the friend is like, 'Or you could participate in my attempt at cryogenesis where your almost certain to die but at least you'll be furthering science.' And John is like, 'ok'. He gets frozen. Flash forward to 2009 and for some reason he's still frozen but fresh and he gets woken up. He's thrown for a loop by the modern world. He ends up meeting modern Sherlock who's a spitting image of his Sherlock, though more acerbic and not as soft as his was. Sherlock is intrigued by John and the mystery of his past and helps John find out what happend to past Sherlock and why John was stored for over 100 years. Of course Sherlock softens up to John and John is smitten by this modern Sherlock and now it's modern times so now maybe it's John's chance to have that love?_

I was also inspired somewhat by the song "Who Wants to Live Forever" I recommend a particular cover The Tenors, ft. Lindsey Stirling. The song is beautiful, fits this fic very well, and the violin added in parts is what first made me connect it to Sherlock so...

The fic doesn't follow the prompt to the letter (or the song), but the essence is there, I think; also, Red and Sharon knew and agreed with the idea I gave them before I wrote it so... here goes. I hope you all will enjoy!

P.S. There are some important notes at the end, you might want to wait until the end to read them, unless you get too confused at some point. Then go ahead.

* * *

Forever

 _By: Lalaith Quetzalli_

 _He once thought he had the world, but then he lost it, lost the world… his world. He once thought he had lost everything, that there was nothing in the world left for him, only to discover a whole new world of possibilities. Two Lives… One Love… He knows it may not last forever, but who wants forever anyway?_

 **Part 1.**

" _There's no time for us._

 _There's no place for us._

 _What is this thing that builds our dreams, yet slips away from us?"_

" _Who wants to live forever?_

 _Who wants to live forever? Oh,"_

It was bad, so very very bad… There was shouting, and shooting, with the sun burning down on them and sand flying everywhere. It was almost like a scene out of a horror film. It wasn't even his training keeping him focused, no, it was his instincts. He was a soldier, and a doctor, and that meant something to him. It meant that no matter how bad things got all around him, he had a duty to his patients. No matter the sand, the heat, the bullets… the sudden, terrible burning low on his right shoulder. He was just aware enough to process the fact that the bullet had gone straight through, and no bones appeared to have been broken, though he was bleeding, a lot; which meant his subclavian artery had at the very least been nicked, if not worse.

He didn't even hear one of his teammates calling out to him, reaching for him as the blonde began falling; he blacked out completely before his head hit the sand.

 **xXx**

He's drowning… or perhaps not drowning, the exact opposite in fact. The hacking coughs allow him to get the water out. His throat hurts, but he doesn't focus on that. He has no idea at all where he is, how he got there. He can vaguely hear someone calling to him, asking his name… what's his name anyway? He doesn't have a chance to focus too much on that, as he loses consciousness completely but seconds later.

The next time he wakes up he's on a bed, an actual bed. Comfortable. He knows right away it cannot be a hospital, the sheets are much too soft for that, and there is no smell of alcohol and disinfectant.

"Are you feeling better now?" a female voice asks him.

He turns instinctively in her direction. He picks up on as many details as possible, as fast as his still-somewhat-sluggish mind can. She's a brunette and her hair is curly, her eyes are a blue-grey and she's dressed in clothes that are as far from what he ever expected to see a woman wearing as it's possible. That last one tells him that something has gone wrong, something has definitely gone very, very wrong.

"Can you tell me your name?" she asks him, softly but with authority.

She reminds him a bit of his old wife, and that thought brings forth a pang of pain. Even then, he knows how dangerous it can be, if he's with the wrong kind of people. He was warned, after all, about the dangers of joining Finley's project. What could happen if his research ever fell into the wrong hands…

"Ian Morstan," he answers eventually. "and you, ma'am?"

"Cassia Abrams."

He can tell immediately it's an alias, but since the name he gave her is one as well…

"Do you know where you were?" she asks. "Where we found you?"

"Not really." It's not really a lie, he wasn't aware enough when they first woke him up to pay attention. "My memory's a bit splotchy."

"You were found in a the second basement level of an old warehouse in south London, a location that, legally, doesn't exist at all," she points out.

"How did you find me then?" he asks, not quite buying it.

"Let me clarify. The warehouse does exist, first basement included. The second one, though, doesn't. My boss acquired the place recently and I was tasked with supervising the crew going through everything that was left there when the last owner some crazy doctor, passed away. The warehouse wasn't mentioned in any will, so no one even knew it belonged to him until recently."

"Dr. Finley?" The name is out of his mouth before he can stop himself.

The way her eyes sparkle show she was expecting something like that. But it's alright, he's a soldier, he can handle a setback.

"You knew him then?" is all she asks in the end.

"As you can probably guess, yes," he states, evenly.

He's still on a bed, but sitting up, so he doesn't feel too uncomfortable as they talk. He's already made up his mind to tell her the truth. If Dr. Finley is really dead (and he has no reason to believe she lied about that) then he won't be in danger; and something tells him that it's been a lot longer than the agreed time since he went under.

"I knew Dr. Finley, worked with him on a top-secret project for years," he explains calmly. "I also offered myself as test subject."

"What was the topic of the project?" she asks, though he has a feeling she already knows the answer, she has to.

"Cryogenic freezing," he answers anyway.

There is shock in her expression, only for a moment, but he sees it. So apparently she did not know, or not for sure at least.

"What is the date?" he asks, unexpectedly.

"December 4th, 2009," she answers calmly. "We found you five days ago, on November 29th."

He cannot help himself, doesn't even try. He curses, long and colourful, in at least three different languages; it's enough to make the woman sitting on the armchair beside his bed straighten up, taken aback.

"When were you put under, Mr. Morstan?" she asks, curious.

Things are so far out of control, so insane, that he doesn't see a point in lying, or even trying to hide the truth from her (she's still not getting his real name though):

"May 4th, 1893." He answers, quiet and somewhat breathless.

She's really taken aback by that one. She'd known there was something really off about him, how could she not? But she could have never imagined that. She doesn't want to believe him and yet, she can see how shocked he is by the date she gave him, and the way he's eyed her clothing… can it be? Was that man in cryogenic sleep for more than a hundred years? It doesn't seem possible, and yet…

"It was only supposed to be for a year!" He's beginning to rant by that point. "No more! It was one of the first tests on humans! The first long one." He looks like he's about to scream. "What the bloody hell was Henry thinking?! To leave me there for over a century…"

"Dr. Finley died under suspicious circumstances on early 1894," she tells him softly. "According to what we know, his own daughter, Susan, knew nothing of what he might have been working on at the time of his death."

"Suspicious circumstances?" He wants clarification on that.

"It was believed, at the time, that it was a heart condition of some kind that caused his death, the stress as his resources ran low and he had trouble continuing with his project," she explains. "It was until later on that there were reasons to believe he might have been poisoned."

Ian isn't surprised, at all.

"That's why he never told Susan about what he was doing, what we were doing," he nods. "Something like that in the wrong hands… we'd all seen what Blackwood did, and the Professor. We didn't need to give people like them any more weapons."

"But you were still working on it..." It isn't an accusation, not from her.

Ian just shrugs, not seeing the point of explaining himself.

"You must have known how dangerous it was," she goes on. "Why do it then? Why risk it? Especially when you offered yourself as test subject."

"Because I had nothing left," Ian admits quietly, eyes staring into nothing. "My best friend, my brother, my… omi*…"

The last word seems to be ripped of him, something he didn't intend to say. She never gets the chance to ask about it, as he goes on.

"He was gone and it was my fault, I should have been there, I should have… but I couldn't break down. Things needed to be done. My wife needed me… until she didn't any more."

Cassia doesn't dare ask what that means, and she doesn't have to:

"We were going to be a family, we were supposed to be happy…" There's a sob lodged in his throat, making his voice watery, but he doesn't stop talking. "Mary died giving birth to our only son… who followed her into the grave not even a week later. There was nothing I could do. And what good is being a doctor when you cannot save your own family?" he shakes his head. "So, as you can see. I'd nothing left to lose, which is why I didn't even doubt to offer myself for the experiment. It was supposed to only be one year. But if Henry was murdered… I suppose it's enough of a miracle, my being alive right now."

Not that it seems so right now. He just doesn't see the point. It's not like he expected things to be any better a year after he went under, or maybe he did… maybe a part of him had believed there would be some kind of miracle and he'd wake up to find someone there, waiting for him (other than Henry) and he'd no longer have to be alone. Sentiment!

 **xXx**

It doesn't take long for Ian to realize that, while he's not exactly a prisoner, he's not exactly free to leave either. It's obvious that whoever found him, whoever 'Cassia' works for, doesn't want the outside world to know about him. They're also limiting the information he has access to. He may not be able to use those machines, the computers, and the internet. But he can read a newspaper (or many) and he can tell pieces are missing. Sometimes just pages, sections, and here and there an entire day.

Ian has no idea if they're worried about overwhelming him, about him finding out specific things. He's also quite sure they must know already Ian Morstan isn't his real name, but it's not like they can find out the truth. Finley was very conscientious about that, the records never had any names but his own. And even then, from what he's been told, most of those records were burnt at some point. It's why they didn't even know his alias when they found him.

Also, there's something wrong with him. No one has told him, not Cassia, and not the team of doctors and nurses doing check-ups practically every other day; but he's a doctor himself and, more importantly, he's not stupid. He can feel it, he's less fit than he was just a week ago, there are more wrinkles on him, and his hair has begun to grey. He doesn't need to be Sherlock-bloody-Holmes to know that he's ageing, and fast.

 **xXx**

It's two weeks before Ian gets to meet the 'boss' Cassia alluded to every so often. By now he looks more like a man in his early sixties, rather than the forty-one years of age he was when going into the cryogenic sleep. No one has told him a thing, and Ian has begun wondering if they believe him to be blind, or just stupid. It's not like he couldn't notice when it's all happening to him. They might measure the changes in his blood, his hair, his skin… but he was seeing them every time he looked into the mirror, and what's more, he can feel it. His limp has been getting progressively worse, and his shoulder pains him sometimes too. Also, his nightmares aren't getting any better. Sometimes of the war, others of the loss of his wife and child, but most nights… most nights it's about him… him, and that so-called Professor, and the Fall…

The moment the man enters the drawing room where Ian keeps busy reading whatever materials are put at his disposal, he cannot help but get a sense of familiarity. Though it's until he hears the name that he understands why.

"My name is Mycroft Holmes," he announces.

Ian cannot help but react, and he's no doubt the other man has noticed it. So he decides to cut his loses, while still not giving away everything.

"I knew a Mycroft Holmes," he admits with a shrug. "Worked for the government."

"How did you know each other?" This new Mycroft is obviously interested.

"There was a thing… I think it was in 1890," Ian thinks back, trying to think of the best way to justify his knowledge without revealing the whole truth. "As your assistant has probably told you already, I'm a Doctor, or should that be I was a doctor? There was a bit of a tizzy when a man who'd been supposedly executed turned up alive and nearly murdered half the House of Lords. I was only involved in the aftermath, as they needed a lot of medics to do check-ups on people then. At some point Lord Holmes approached us, extolling the importance on keeping quiet regarding what we may have seen or heard that day."

He snorts even as he says that. He knows Mycroft Holmes did exactly that, but it was pretty pointless with the short novels that kept being sold, relating Sherlock Holmes's and Dr. Watson's adventures. The mess with Blackwood had certainly rated one.

"You have many secrets Dr. Morstan," Mycroft says out-of-nowhere.

Ian isn't surprised at all.

"As do you, Lord Holmes," Ian replies easily. "How long did you and your doctors think you could have hid the truth from me? I'm a Doctor myself!"

"And what truth is that?"

"That I'm dying!"

"Everyone dies. In life there is a single certainty, that we will one day die."

"True, and if you want to get technical I should have died a long time ago, more than half a century at the very least. But that's not what I'm talking about right now and you know that as well as I do."

Thankfully Mycroft doesn't try to lie, or give pointless platitudes, Ian might have screamed bloody murder then. Instead, he gets to the point.

"We know not what is happening, or how," Mycroft admits. "Truth is, without any access to Dr. Finley's papers, his original research, we don't understand much of what he did, of how you were kept frozen. At first some believed your body was just failing to adapt to the changes, to being frozen and unfrozen."

"Like fruit badly handled." Ian cannot help but snort at his own comparison.

"But it's not that," Mycroft goes on, ignoring his comment. "This goes beyond your body shutting down. It's…"

"I'm ageing," Ian finishes for him, dead-honest and completely calm. "At such a rate I'll be lucky if I live past the end of the month."

Truth is, he's not afraid of dying, he never has been; and since the loss of the three people he loved the most… well, those who might have suggested that he volunteered to be Henry's guinea-pig because a part of him actually expected to die… they weren't that wrong. He would have never taken his own life, that was a path only cowards took, and he was no coward; but still, it wasn't like he had much to live for either.

 **xXx**

Once it's out that he's ageing fast and won't be living long, one of the junior assistants takes pity on him and teaches him a bit how to use the computer and the internet. It's actually quite simple. One just has to type a question in the right spot to get an answer. Of course the girl gives him a dozen and a half warnings about not trusting information unless he can confirm it on at least three other sites, and to be careful of something called fake-news. Ian is relatively sure that what he's looking for is not the kind of thing people would be interested in writing 'fake news' about.

First he looks up Henry Finley because, why not? He finds old newspaper scans, and mentions of papers he published. It's all very formal, and he can see where the government, or someone else, made sure to delete whatever they considered too dangerous. Next he looks up his wife's name. He finds her obituary, and their son's. He also finds the column written about their wedding. Because, well, while he wasn't exactly 'famous', he wasn't a completely unknown, and had warranted a column in the paper. It includes their wedding picture, and Ian cannot help but cry for several minutes.

He can still remember the day. So incredible in ways both good and bad. So much could have gone so wrong. And yet thanks to… him, it didn't. Granted, he'd gotten Ian into trouble first, but still. And Mary… she was a godsend, that woman must have been a Saint in another life for the way she managed to deal with both of them. The way she loved Ian even knowing what was in his heart. It wasn't that he didn't love her, because of course he did; and she loved him and understood him enough to know that him loving… Him, didn't make Ian love her any less.

Next he finds his own obituary. Apparently the official version is that he died in the same fire where most of Finley's research was lost, the day before he himself died of poisoning. What he really, really wasn't expecting, was the news announcing His return. Return… after he was supposed to have died! Ian saw him Fall! Saw the two of them… But he survived… He survived, and for more than two years, Ian knew nothing about it. And according to the article, he wasn't kidnapped, or being held against his will, he was travelling… He… he faked his death, left him behind to mourn and… Suddenly the emotion is just too great, he blacks out.

When he wakes up Cassia is by his bedside. With the junior assistant… Jenny, standing behind her, looking quite distraught.

"You had a heart attack," Cassia informs him straight out.

All things told, Ian is not surprised.

"This is why we were trying to limit the information," she tries to explain.

"I'm dying anyway," he cuts her off. "I deserve to know what became of my loved ones, of my friends, before I go."

"Very well," Cassia agrees, making it obvious that she was already expecting such a response. "But you'll allow Jennifer to stay. She'll help you and make sure you do not kill yourself."

Ian could almost snort. Almost, but the heartache of what he's just discovered is still too near, he cannot make himself even fake laughter. Not in the slightest. And yet, much as it might pain him, a part of him just needs to know what else happened. After… he Needs to Know…

 **xXx**

The first thing he finds, or rather that Jenny finds for him. Is a sort-of biography he wrote yet never published. Except apparently someone had it published after his 'death'. Jenny is such a godsend, she actually gets him a copy of the book, in paper. It's all exactly as he wrote it, even parts he was sure He would have deleted before the thing ever went to print (if it ever did… even as he wrote it he wasn't sure he'd ever publish it… writing short stories for the paper was one thing, but a biography?). Only the last chapter is new to him, narrating what happened after the Fall, including several paragraphs about his family, their deaths and his own loss.

"You're him, aren't you?" Jenny asks after he closes the book, tears on the corners of his eyes.

He turns to look at her, even as the first tears fall. He's been holding onto the truth, his truth, ever since the start; but in that moment… he just doesn't know how to do it any more.

"Yeah," He drops his head back, against the back of the armchair he's sitting on, closing his eyes tight, trying to stop crying.

"Your secret is safe with me, Dr. Watson," she assures him very softly.

He's not sure that's true. Nothing against the girl, but Holmes probably has him under constant surveillance. He knows that much. Still, he's grateful to her either way.

"I need to know what happened to Sherlock after I… after I was gone," he states after what seems like forever.

Jenny nods once and gets to work.

It's not a nice story, what they find. Holmes had a few cases, not many, and not for long. After he almost got himself killed for the third time in a month Scotland Yard had cut him off completely. Deciding he was too much of a danger, both to himself and those around him. His brother had somehow managed to convince him to leave London, and Holmes went on to spend the rest of his life in a cottage on the country, keeping bees. Died in his nineties, with no family, leaving all he had to the housekeeper and her son, who'd helped him in his last years.

There are even notes from the son: Roger Munro, he'd written about his days with Mr. Holmes, hearing about his cases, learning all he could about deductions. The boy had eventually gone to become a Private Investigator himself. What hits Watson most though, is the boy's mention of how sometimes, during the night, after a nightmare, or in his last year, when sickness took him, he'd call for him, for Watson, his omi*… the boy didn't known what that word meant, of course not. Why would he? Few people had known Polari even back then, and from those few groups who used the vocabulary… well, few would have expected the reason why Holmes and he did. And perhaps it's better that way, while the world has certainly changed, there's no need to disturb the dead… Who knows? Perhaps he'll be lucky enough and some day get the chance to see Holmes again…

 **xXx**

Ian knew they were keeping something from him. But it's until halfway through the last week of December that he finds out what that is, exactly. He knows that the Mycroft Holmes who was connected to his being found, who sent first Cassia and then Jenny to help him, was a direct descendant of the Mycroft Holmes he used to know, back in the 1890s. He also knew already that he's not the only descendant. It still takes him by surprise when, completely by accident, he finds the unedited Holmes family tree, and gets to see the name beside Mycroft Reginald Siger Holmes. It's William Sherlock Scott Holmes.

What are the odds? It's not like he's expecting that Sherlock to be his Sherlock or anything like that. But what are the odds of there being a Mycroft and a Sherlock Holmes, brothers, and considering the former was as much a politician as the 'other one' had been…

Ian has no idea why exactly they've been keeping that information from him. Did they think he might go crazy, seek out William and try to… what? He cannot even fathom. Then again, he's not a Holmes, or a genius in any understanding of the term, so that might have something to do with it. Ian tries to push all thought of William away, he really does. But he's getting old fast. Already looks like he must be somewhere between late seventies and early eighties… and he certainly feels it. And a part of him, in his core, his heart (his soul) just wants to see…

When the 29th comes Ian knows his time is coming to an end, and he so hates the idea of just laying down to die, to remain a nobody to the end. It's really not his style.

It's easy enough to convince Jenny he'd like to take a stroll somewhere beyond his 'gilded cage'. He actually does use those words, and by the sheepish look Jenny directs at him, it's obvious she has thought the same. The estate may be beautiful, but it's still a cage in its own way. It's not like anyone would be able to recognize him or anything, he's so old… in the end Jenny manages to convince her boss, somehow. They arrange for a taxi and take him to a park so he might take a walk, breathe some fresh and all that…

They end up at Primrose Hill, and Ian gets this insane idea… and he knows it's truly insane. He didn't plan it when he first decided he wanted to go out. Ok… so he might have planned on doing something, but not exactly that! When the moment comes it's actually quite easy, more than he expected. He slips away from Jenny while she's busy looking at something on her mobile (she tried to explain the device to him, Ian still doesn't understand what the point of the bloody thing is). It's almost ridiculously easy to slip away from the guards Mr. Holmes insisted on sending along. Cane in hand and looking (and feeling) like quite the old man, it doesn't take long for someone to help him cross the road, and then he's at Regent's Park.

He takes his time, not only because he's old and tires easily, but also because he does truly want to enjoy the stroll. He knows Regent's Park like the back of his hand, and while so much has changed, that little piece of London remains just enough like he remembers it for him to feel at ease, walking through it. Or maybe… maybe it's not that it hasn't changed (because it certainly has), it's that he's finally accepted that he's no longer in the old London, in the place he called home, but that doesn't mean he cannot enjoy this little piece of the new one anyway.

Ian never expected to make it all the way across Regent's Park, much less onto Baker Street, yet he does. The Sandwich Bar, Speedy's, takes him completely by surprise. All the same, it's a good excuse for him to stay right there, without looking too suspicious. He buys a cup of tea, it's about all he has the money for (which he took from one of the 'pseudo-assistants' that accompanied him and Jenny); and things have definitely become much more expensive since he was last around!

That last thing he could have ever expected, is when a young man, no older than early thirties really, abruptly drops onto the chair across from him, carrying a cup of tea, a sandwich cut in fourths and what could be considered an unhealthy amount of chips on the side.

It takes all of Ian's old training not to gape like stupid. Because he might have gotten old, and the man across him might look nothing like the Sherlock Holmes he used to know… but something inside him, in his gut (his core… his heart… his very soul) is telling him that the man sitting right there, is, in fact, none other than William Sherlock Scott Holmes.

Ian cannot help it, he stares, for quite a while.

"What you staring at old man?" the young… new Holmes asks bluntly.

He sounds nothing like Holmes at all… and at the same time seems so much like him. Ian cannot even explain it, not even to himself. It makes no sense at all except… except inside him, at his core, he can feel the pull. The pull he's always felt towards Sherlock-bloody-Holmes!

"I… you kind of remind me of someone," he admits.

"Someone..." He's under the penetrating gaze of those all-too-familiar stormy eyes, and then it comes, like he knew it would. "Someone important… family… more than family… a man… not a brother… more… but you had a wife… she died… you were alone… but He…"

"He was my whole world," Ian admits softly. "The sun, the moon and every star in the sky."

He can hear the other man scoff, but he's still staring.

"Why can't I deduce you?" he asks eventually. "It's like… some things are right there, but aren't logical, and others… they're contradictory."

"Why do you think that is?" Ian cannot help but ask in return.

"It's quite impossible for you to be old and young at the same time. You are married, but your wife is dead. The person I remind you of, family, but more than family, a man, so not your wife, yet you weren't cheating on her… What am I missing?"

Something huge, but he cannot really tell him. As much as a part of him really wants to, it isn't fair to this new, younger Sherlock. Because as much as he might seem like the old one, like His Sherlock… he really isn't.

"Perhaps it's not that you're missing something, but you are not seeing the whole picture," Ian offers eventually.

"Should I ask you to turn around?" Sherlock asks in return.

Ian cannot help himself, he guffaws.

Sherlock somehow manages to convince him to eat half of the sandwich, and some of the chips. They're the only things (aside from the tea) that he's eaten all day. Not that he's been really hungry lately.

"Not eating… you're dying," Sherlock deduces another piece as they finish the chips.

"Brilliant." Ian cannot hold himself back any more, he just has to praise him.

In the past he was sporadic and even a tad sarcastic when giving praise. But not right then. He cannot help but think of all the lost opportunities, all the times he didn't get the chance to tell his Holmes how amazing he was. Also, judging by the way the other man falls silent, his eyes wide, it's obvious he hasn't been on the receiving end of such comments too often, either. Ian briefly wishes he had the chance to do more for him, for the young man before him who so painfully reminds him of his own, his detective, his man, his… but he has no time left. None at all.

"What do I keep missing?" Sherlock practically demands.

"It's a long story, you wouldn't believe me if I told you." Ian states.

"Try me." The young Holmes demands.

Ian will never know what made him do exactly that, but he does. He doesn't tell everything, and certainly no names, but just enough for H… Sherlock to know where he comes from, how he's there, and what he left behind. He can see the curiosity fighting with the disbelief. A good deal of the man probably wants to call bullshit; but Ian has dropped all pretences, gone back to his old accent and speech patterns which, he knows, are nothing like people speak nowadays.

"You miss… Him, more than Them," Sherlock murmurs eventually. "Why?"

"I loved my wife, I still do. And our son… even though I had so short a time with him, I loved him dearly. They were my life, especially after I lost… Him," Ian admits quietly. "But He… he wasn't my life, he was the universe, a piece of my heart and of my very soul…" He breaths deeply. "Mary… for her I survived, she gave me a reason to keep going. But S… Him, he gave my life meaning, purpose, he made me feel like I mattered, not for just one person, but to the world. That I had a destiny to fulfil…"

"Do you hate…?" Sherlock starts.

He never gets to finish the question. There's a commotion on the street and Ian instinctively knows his time is up. But he's not ready yet! And it's not even about H… Sherlock. He's not ready to go back to that prison masquerading as a safe-house. He's dying, he's quite sure of that, it's unlikely he'll see another dawn. But as long as its up to him, he will not die in that golden cage Mycroft Holmes insists on keeping him in.

Ian is so focused on making a plan, he doesn't notice when Sherlock first takes his hand, pulling him out of his chair. Only instead of making for the front of the shop, they make for the back, straight into what must be the flat owner's private living quarters. He vaguely hears Sherlock calling to the woman… Mrs. Hudson… the mere name is enough to leave him reeling, so much he's not fully aware of anything until they're going out some kind of backdoor, some alley, and next thing he knows they're walking down Siddons Lane. A moment later Sherlock calls a cab.

"He'll take you wherever you want," he informs Ian.

Ian can only blink, not quite understanding why Sherlock is doing that.

"Kurt owes me a favour, he'll take you wherever you need to go," Sherlock elaborates, then adds: "I've no idea how much of what you told me is true, I don't care. What I know for sure is that my brother is looking for you… I've always liked making things a bit harder for him." He makes a pause. "You do know he'll find you?"

"I know," Ian shrugs, but not yet.

As if able to read Ian's mind, Sherlock nods. The old man has just climbed into the cab, when something else occurs to him.

"Ian Morstan." He tells him with a small smirk. "In case you were interested in a name."

Sherlock is smart enough to know it's not the real one, but still.

The taxi starts. Ian waits until he turns the corner onto Glentworth Street to give him instructions:

"Kensal Green Cemetery please."

"Right away sir." The man, Kurt, replies immediately.

The sun is almost completely down by the time they make it to the cemetery. Kurt asks him once if he's sure, and he is. Ian reassures him as well he can, then leaves the taxi and begins the walk he knows well. Doesn't matter how much time has passed. That's one route Ian/John is quite sure he'd be able to walk even were he to go suddenly blind.

First he reaches a mausoleum. With the name Holmes inscribed over the door. He knows His rests are there and he cannot help but run a hand across the heavy iron door, a part of him wishing there was a way he could get closer. In the end he shakes his head and, with some effort, manages to push himself to walk the missing yards. Just past the mausoleum, there are two graves. The first has one single name, his… he knows it's empty, that it was Holmes who insisted on the gravestone, even if they never found his body. And the one beside it… that one has two names: _Mary Elizabeth Watson_ is first, with her Date of Birth and of Death… she was so young… not even thirty years old yet. The second name though, that one pains him the most, with dates that show how short his life was; his baby, his son: _Ian Sherlock Watson_.

John drops to the grass, caring very little for his clothes, his cane, or even his own body in that moment. He is where he wants to be… were he needs to be. Let Mycroft Holmes find him, he isn't leaving his family again.

 **xXx**

Mycroft, Cassia, Jenny and a team find the man the following morning, or what's left of him. In a single night he hasn't just passed away, his body looks as if he's been dead for weeks, if not longer. They don't even see the point in taking him away, instead make arrangements to lay him to rest right there, in his own grave.

At the same time, in Queen Elizabeth's Hospital, nurses are going nuts, as the patient who'd arrived as an emergency almost a month prior, in a comma and whom so many have given up on, has just woken up. The chart at his feet reveals the man's identity: Captain John H. Watson, RAMC.

* * *

This fic takes three different versions of Sherlock Holmes: the Sherlock Holmes movies with Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law, the Mr. Holmes movie with Ian McKellen, and of course the BBC tv show with our dear Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman. The first two are, for this fic, supposed to be the same life, the current Sherlock and John's (and Mycroft's, Mrs. Hudson's, etc.) past lives. This is actually mentioned in the fic itself, but I clarify it just in case. Also because there's one single but very important change made to the Downey movies: Watson never got the package from which he inferred Holmes's survival. That's very important because it's the catalyzer for everything else that happens, and the fic itself. The latter fate of Mrs. Watson and the infant comes from things I've read regarding what apparently happens to them in the original Arthur Conan Doyle novels, though I'll be completely honest and admit I've never read them.

Remember that full-sized poster/cover can be found, as always, on DeviantArt.

So, that's what needed to be said. Hope you all enjoyed/enjoy this fic and please don't forget to leave kudos, comments, etc. Hope to see you around!


	2. Part 2

So... this is where things get interesting (I hope).

We go through Season 2 at a very fast pace, as some characters contemplate the nature of life, death, love, trust and mistakes... It's all coming to a head next week!

* * *

 **Part 2.**

" _There's no chance for us._

 _It's all decided for us._

 _This world has only one sweet moment set aside for us."_

" _Who wants to live forever?_

 _Who dares to love forever?_

 _Oooh, Ahh,"_

" _Who dares to live forever? Woah,_

 _When love must die."_

John has always known that he isn't what most would consider a normal man. Never has been. After all, who spends years of their lives seeking to become a doctor, a surgeon even; only to drop it all less than five years later to join the army, and not just that, but to go to an active war zone, and be part of patrols? Yeah, no normal man does that.

It's only gotten worse since he came back. John's been told by more than one person, especially his doctors, that he's very lucky. He almost died, in Afghanistan… technically speaking, he did die. He lost so much blood after being shot low on his shoulder (a bloody bullet that nicked his subclavian artery, damaged a lung, tore at a few muscles and somehow managed to miss most nerves and all bones), and that, along with the infection and fever that followed made it so his heart actually stopped for a while. Long enough that when he slipped into a coma in the aftermath most people believed it unlikely that he'd ever wake up.

He did though, wake up, a month, almost to the day, later. By then he was already in Queen Elizabeth's hospital, in London. There had been two surgeries to repair the damage to his lung and shoulder. Still, not all the damage could be undone. Which meant he ended with a limp (psychosomatic, he knew, didn't make it feel any less real to him though), an intermittent tremor on what was supposed to be his dominant hand (he might be ambidextrous by practice, but he was born a lefty) and vivid dreams that were driving him crazy.

The dreams, that was perhaps the worst part. The bloody dreams! John may have fancied himself a poet once, when in secondary school, in love with beautiful Rosalind, who looked so much like a princess… it, like many other things in his life, had passed. He'd been in love with many other women, and even a few men; went out with a few of both genders, ended in bed with a number of them (always women, he found it easier, for some reason). In any case, John might have once fancied himself a poet, but he'd never believed himself to be a novelist. And yet those dreams seemed to belonged nowhere but in a freaking novel! (or a few)

At first it wasn't so bad. John woke from his coma feeling like a lifetime had passed, and also no time at all. He was never sure how to explain it to the doctors, all the things he'd dreamed while in a coma. He knew, as a doctor, that he shouldn't have dreamt anything, it shouldn't be possible, the state the brain was in while in a coma wasn't the same state it was when one actually slept and dreamt; yet he had. Still, he kept those to himself, and as the days passed, the memories of those dreams became flimsier, like old dreams, and John decided to let it be. To forget.

He left the hospital a week after waking from his coma and went straight to a bedsit with orders for a weekly appointment for physical therapy, and another for psychological therapy. He doubts either is doing much to actually help him. And then, exactly a month after waking up, he has the meeting that, though he doesn't know it at first, will change his life, forever…

The whole thing is more than a little surreal. The only reason he didn't ignore Stamford at all was that even just him calling John's name was a deviation from his (boring as hell) routine. All of John's friends are still off getting shot or, ironically, got shot and are already dead. He cannot handle spending too long with Harry, not since the loss of baby, and the alcohol and the messy divorce (and John still cannot fathom when and how things ever got so bad between the two, shouldn't they have been leaning on each other to deal with the loss…? No, instead they pushed each other's buttons until it all fell apart).

And then it happens. The not-introduction, the rush of words… deductions, the announcements of what they'll be doing the following day… and what the hell?! When exactly did John agree to any of that? He's still reeling from the shock of it all when the final words come:

"The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is two two one B Baker Street."

A cheeky wink and then he's gone, but John's not paying attention any more, not even when Mike tells him that yes, the crazy bastard is always like that. John's mind has gotten lost in those words: _Sherlock Holmes…_ _221B Baker Street…_ They resonate, somewhere deep inside him. And he knows, despite the insanity of it all, that he will be there.

 **xXx**

John Watson didn't sign up for being errand boy to a self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath, to run after him solving crimes, pursuing suspects, sometimes even killing them when they got uncomfortably close to doing that to the aforementioned high-functioning sociopath. And he, most definitely, did not sign up to get kidnapped, have a bunch of explosives strapped to his chest, and be used as the '5th pip' of the insane bastard that seems to believe that crimes are better than roses when it comes to trying to woo the world's only consulting detective!

And yet… despite his kilometric list of complaints regarding one Sherlock Holmes truth is, if John Watson could back to the day he chose to move in to 221B Baker Street; and, more importantly, the day he said 'Oh God Yes' to Sherlock's offer to accompany him to a crime scene… John wouldn't change a thing.

Insane as his life might have become, and much as he might dislike being nearly killed every other week, he doesn't regret living with Sherlock Holmes, knowing him, quite possibly being the closest the younger man has to an actual friend… being Sherlock Holmes's flatmate (his blogger, his 'sidekick') has allowed him to enjoy life in a way he believed forever lost when a bullet low on his shoulder ripped away his military career. There's as much adrenaline, and at the same time, it's more fulfilling, somehow. Even if Sherlock doesn't share the sense of brotherhood that John had with his old unit, he knows the man cares (whatever he might claim to the contrary and to feelings in general); the work he does, the people he helps… it's far more rewarding than fighting a war they all knew from the start would never be won.

As for Jim Moriarty, well, he's a few cards short of a full deck, as one of his old army-buddies used to say (an American). John himself would simply say the bastard had lost the plot, or maybe he never had it in the first place. John knows that being a genius isn't easy, he's seen how it drives Sherlock more than a little crazy some days (body parts in the fridge, crazy experiments in their kitchen and shooting at the wall being the prime examples). He knows that his flatmate is so brilliant… and he could be using that mind for a great many things, other than solving cases. He could make millions working for some lab, or a company… or he could be playing on the other side of the field… much like Moriarty. But he doesn't, he solves crimes rather than commit them, because (regardless of what people like Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson might say) Sherlock is a good man; he cares, even if most of the time he doesn't know how to express it.

John spends the whole exchange in the pool feeling more than a little off. He's no idea what the hell Moriarty's goons gave him when they took him from the streets, but he knows it cannot be good. He keeps feeling like he's not completely there, like a part of his mind is elsewhere, fighting against mists to pull through, to see… something.

Parroting the words whispered into his ear feels so wrong, having Jim Moriarty actually step out from the hallway where he'd been waiting and speak for himself isn't any better. Especially because, even as the two genius begin what John would be inclined to describe as a verbal chess-match, a part of the former soldier's mind is lost in the memory of a room filled with clippings, from many different newspapers, as well as pages from books, notebooks; and more importantly, red threads connecting everything. It kind of reminds him of Sherlock piecing things together, except he's never seen the consulting detective build something quite as big as what he's seeing in his mind's eye.

The moment is broken when Sherlock calls to him:

"You all right?"

John's not stupid, he was given strict instructions not to talk to Sherlock, and while he usually isn't the kind to just fold and obey… he won't risk his friend's life, so he stays quiet, keeps his eyes averted, until the self-proclaimed consulting criminal gives his permission. Even then, all he does is nod, once. And really, that's all that's really needed.

John stays quiet, bottling up all his anger, his stress, his impotence… until the moment when Moriarty throws the memory stick with the missile plans away; showing he never cared about them, it was never about that. John snaps then, reacting instead of acting. He's not really thinking as he rushes Moriarty from behind, throwing his arms around the man, holding him tight, even as he braces for what he believes is coming (the pain… the death).

"Sherlock, run!" he orders instantly, before turning all his attention to the genius closest to him. "If your sniper pulls that trigger Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up."

It's not like he expects there to be no shot, he's shrew enough to expect it, and even to expect that they can kill him without actually hurting Moriarty. All he can hope for is that Sherlock might listen to him, for once, and run while he has the chance. Of course, that was probably too much to hope for from the very start.

Of course Sherlock doesn't run, and while Moriarty's sniper doesn't actually call his bluff, there's suddenly a red dot on Sherlock's forehead, making it very clear what will happen if John doesn't desist… there's nothing else he can do at that point.

Thankfully none of them get shot or blown up; though it's not thanks to any of them really, but some mysterious call Moriarty receives, which makes him choose to walk away. Sherlock and John leave as soon as they can, back to Baker Street, to home…

That night John dreams of that room with all the clippings and the red-thread connecting the pieces, like a metaphorical spiderweb.

It's just the start.

 **xXx**

When they first meet the Woman John feel almost like he's looking straight through her and seeing someone else. A woman whose softer looks might cause someone to make the mistake of underestimating her, of believing her to be a plain, simple, weak woman, when she's anything but. At the time John still has no idea what's happening to him.

Time passes, and the dreams don't just continue, they escalate. For a while he even wonders if he's slowly going crazy. If his bloody PTSD, from the war, and the madness Sherlock seems to keep dragging him into has finally made him crack, and then he has the dream… the one that changes everything once and for all…

 _He's running, through a ballroom, or something like that, and it's crazy, what with the attempted assassination they managed to avert just in the nick of time… but he cannot focus on that, he cannot because * is missing, and he just knows something is very wrong, so very, very wrong… he bursts through the door and onto the highest balcony just in time to see Him… *… his dearest friend, his… everything. He's there, with the bloody Professor, they appear to be fighting, or have been fighting, and before he can even think of doing anything at all, they're falling… backwards, straight to the Falls. Reichenbach Falls._

 _In the blink of an eye, he's no longer standing on that balcony, but in a cemetery instead. He's not alone, not physically, but that doesn't matter because in his mind, his heart, he feels alone, and it's all due to the very thing before him, the tombstone, the name on it, the one who left him behind… it wasn't supposed to be like that. He was supposed to be invincible, no matter how much they might joke about death coming for them, for Him… it was never supposed to happen!_

 _Things change in a heartbeat, he's still standing in the cemetery, but instead of one grave, there are two, and now he really is all alone…_

When John first lays eyes on the painting Sherlock has managed to recover, minutes before the press conference, he has to excuse himself and rush to the bathroom, lest he be sick on the spot. The nausea is so bad it takes all his will to keep up a neutral facade through the whole thing, and he's quite sure the only reason Sherlock doesn't notice is because of how uncomfortable he himself is feeling, standing under the limelight.

Really, his friend might love to be praised for his deductions, but he can see the reporters are as likely to shower honours upon him as they're to tear him down.

The following three months are an absolute mess, and John knows he's not being as much help as he could (should) be. It's just… he's not a believer, he never has been, but according to Sherlock Holmes himself: 'when you've eliminated the impossible, whatever is left, however improbable, must be the truth'. The impossible in this case being that he's gone crazy, mainly because he has a feeling that if he had gone, indeed, crazy a) he wouldn't be having such a hard time dealing with things and b) Sherlock would have noticed. Which means he (most likely) isn't crazy; also coincidences simply do not exist; which leaves him with only one option: it's true. Somehow, everything, all his dreams, are true.

He has memories of years… a whole lifetime. One where he, for some reason he cannot quite comprehend, had the exact same name he does now: John Hamish Watson. Except he was born in the second half of the 19th century. He was a military man, one who served for three years in the Afghan War before a bullet or two ended his service. And then he met Sherlock Holmes…

If it weren't impossible John might think that his dreams have somehow changed his day-life into a late 19th century version of the events. Except things aren't exactly the same. Some cases might appear similar, but not quite. Also, the whole thing with Lord Blackwood… they've never had a case even remotely like that (thankfully). And of course there's Mary. John went as far as looking her up online. He found two Mary Morstans; one a stillborn baby-girl resting in a small grave in a cemetery in Devon; the other, a nurse working in a small clinic in East London, there's something not quite right with her papers, but John cannot put a finger on it. Still, it's not like he plans to go looking for her. His wife she might have once been (possibly, if it's really her), but that doesn't change a thing in their current lives.

That's the biggest difference between his two lives (yes, hard as it might be to admit it, he sees them as two lives, reincarnation, rather than mere dreams), is that in the past he'd felt the need to have it all: his job as a doctor, a wife, a family, and his man… he wasn't sure if it was the society of the time, or how insecure he always felt beside Holmes. The present is different, he likes his job, but it's not his priority, and it'll never be; and while he certainly enjoys taking women out, even spending the night with a few of them, he's not interested in anything more permanent with any of them. Sherlock Holmes is and always will be the centre of his universe, and this time he's not afraid to admit it.

 **xXx**

When Moriarty walks free after that farce of a trial John just knows things are about to go very, very wrong. It takes two months for it to happen, but still, he knew it was coming.

He can still remember the last time, with the Professor… he's no idea if Jim is supposed to be his descendant, his reincarnation or if, perhaps, 'Moriarty' might be a title rather than a name. It's not like it matters in the grand scheme of things. A Moriarty has made himself into one Sherlock Holmes's nemesis; John's not going to allow things to go down like they did the last time.

Back then he made a mistake (he made many mistakes). He was so focused on Mary, on their upcoming marriage, so convinced that Holmes was being childish, was throwing his own version of a tantrum, trying to make sure he still was the most important person in Watson's life (he never stopped being that, not when he met Mary, began dating her, not even after they married… as was proven considering he let his bride go when they were supposed to be on their way to their honeymoon, to once again follow Holmes on a case). When Holmes first brought up the matter of Professor Moriarty, claimed he was connected with all those crimes, which no one else believed to have even the slightest thing in common… Watson didn't believe it. Or rather… he didn't want to. He wanted things to be simple, just for once, just for long enough for him to get to where he wanted to be with Mary. It's not like he ever planned on just dropping Holmes, on never seeing him again, he just wanted a little time for them. Perhaps it was selfishness, perhaps it was cowardice, he'll never know.

What he does know, is that he's not making the same mistake twice. This time he's not doubting Sherlock, or Moriarty. The first is his dearest friend, a genius, a consulting detective; the second is a spider, a criminal, a monster, one that needs to be stopped before he does something John will not be able to deal with.

When the mess with the alleged-actor Richard Brooks starts John spends weeks doing all he can think of to make sure that, whatever he might try, Moriarty will not win. He calls up on old friends, former army-buddies, every person he can think of. He gets in touch with some girl, a hacker, to try and unravel the lie that is Richard Brooks. He even goes to see Mycroft twice, trying to get him to help watch over Sherlock, but it's all pointless.

John wonders at karma, and at the whole idea of 'history repeating itself'; because that seems to be exactly what's happening. No matter how hard he tries, they seem to be slowly but surely going down the same path, a path that will end with Sherlock Holmes dead, or worse.

Yes, worse, because John has remembered that part too. The part where Holmes didn't actually die when he fell off that balcony with Professor Moriarty (thankfully, the bastard did). He had a plan in place, he survived… and Watson knew nothing of it. That, added to the loss of both Mary and their newborn baby but days after his birth, made it so Watson lost himself. Got involved with some top-secret experiment an old classmate of his: Henry Finley was working on. A very experimental procedure: cryogenics.

That's the part John still has trouble wrapping his head around. The idea that, while he was in a coma in a military hospital his soul somehow went and burrowed into his old body, right as Mycroft's people found him in that basement. He doesn't know which one is more staggering: the idea of a soul existing (he did say he's never been much of a believer) reincarnation (though that one he has more or less gotten his head around by now), or the way his two lives have ended entwined in so many ways that should have been impossible. Not just because of Mycroft finding him and Anthea (though she called herself Cassia then, just like he chose to use the name of his deceased son, with his wife's maiden name) supervising his stay in that house, but the fact that he'd actually come face to face with the new Sherlock Holmes… one might even think their souls were calling to each other, through time, and space and whole lifetimes. Like they were soulmates or something…

 **xXx**

John doesn't think twice about it (hardly once, really) before slamming his fist against the superintendent's face. That bastard, all of them really, have the gall to call Sherlock a fake, a criminal, a monster… John might have done even worse than a punch to Donovan if she'd been anywhere close, never mind that she's a woman and before that night he'd have never so much as thought about doing violence to one. She started it, the whole mess (well, Moriarty started it, but if she weren't so stupid she wouldn't have ended playing right into his hands!) and yet, to think that Lestrade is actually taking her side! That's the part John can't quite wrap his mind around. It's one thing for idiots who've never really known Sherlock to believe that he can be a fake, or for jealous people like Donovan and Anderson, but for Lestrade (Lestrade! The one who first saw Sherlock's genius, who brought him in as a consultant for New Scotland Yard!) to stand with them, that's a betrayal of the worst kind.

Yet there's no time for John to worry too much about that part, and not just because shortly after punching the superintendent in the face he and Sherlock find themselves running like crazy through the darkened streets of New York. No, it's everything else that's going on.

Actually, the running part is good. It brings back memories, of that first night, when Sherlock first took him on an insane race through the streets of London, through rooftops and back-alleys, in the middle of the night, in pursuit of a taxi; before they ended running all over again, this time away from the man they believed to have misidentified as a suspect (of course, the mistake ended up being that they focused on the passenger instead of the driver, but anyway).

The whole meeting with Kitty Riley is a mess of epic proportions John could really have done without. He's feeling completely off his game; aware that he's missing something, something big, but having no idea what it could possibly be.

He doesn't want to leave Sherlock, he really doesn't, but after realizing just how much Riley knows about Sherlock… well, it's obvious enough that she got all that information from Moriarty himself, and the list of people he could have gotten it from is not exactly long. Sherlock himself obviously didn't do it; he may be a bit crazy, but not that much. John certainly didn't, for the kind of obvious that he might have made his peace with already, even if he hasn't revealed it to anyone else (the same that made him decide not to look Mary up, even when he's quite sure it is indeed the woman working as a nurse in East London). Mrs. Hudson, great woman that she is, doesn't know that much; and Lestrade… just no. Which leaves only one name: Mycroft.

The whole confrontation with Mycroft makes John want to grind his teeth. He feels like he's several steps behind it all; he always feels like that when it involves the Holmes brothers, but never before had it been that bad. And it's not even that, it's like… like he's in a play and has forgotten his lines, or someone gave him the wrong script to memorize.

As Mycroft explains everything that happened with Moriarty, the deal that got out of hand, John cannot help the instinct screaming inside him that it's just too perfect; even being that bad, something just doesn't make sense, even if he's no idea what it is, exactly.

"I'm sorry."

The moment those words cross Mycroft's lips John's mind goes blank. He replies with something confrontational, but he's not paying attention any more, not really. For an insane handful of seconds he actually considers telling Mycroft the truth, all he remembers, the feeling he has that things are about to go very, very wrong… then he thinks better of it. Mycroft kept him… the old him, Ian… Watson, pretty much locked in some house for most of the month he had after being woken for cryostasis. He cannot risk the elder Holmes brother going nuts if John tells him anything. Matter of fact, John doesn't know if the man really, somehow, never learned the truth about Ian Morstan, or if it just never occurred to him to believe that there might be some kind of connection between the two John Watsons… can a man like Mycroft Holmes believe in coincidence? Truth is John hasn't the slightest idea of what exactly a man like Mycroft believes in, and this certainly isn't the time to ponder on it. He has enough on his plate as is. He needs to get to Sherlock and make sure he doesn't do something stupid.

 **xXx**

John could scream, he really could. In fact, a part of him really wants to. How could everything go so wrong so fast? He's spent the last three months creating plan after plan, contingency after contingency, intending to ensure Sherlock's safety, to make sure Moriarty won't be able to get to him, only for everything to go to hell in less than an hour… and at Sherlock's own hand too!

The call, the lie, Mrs. Hudson… if John weren't so absolutely terrified for Sherlock in that moment he would truly worry about inevitabilities. But there's no time for that, because Sherlock, his Sherlock, is standing on the edge of St. Bart's rooftop, and John hasn't the slightest idea of how to get him down… the nice, slow, safe way.

John has no idea what he says exactly, when he first sees Sherlock standing there. For a moment all he can see is Holmes in that bloody balcony, holding tightly on the Professor, just for a second, before they both went down. The former-soldier forces himself to focus as he begins hearing his best-friend (his partner, his everything!)'s voice through the phone again:

"I... I... I can't come down, so we'll... we'll just have to do it like this."

"What's going on?" He knows, or at the very least has very strong suspicions about what's going on, but his mind just refuses to process it. It's too much.

"An apology. It's all true."

"Wh-what?" It's so ridiculous, so absolutely implausible… he cannot grasp it.

"Everything they said about me." Sherlock clarifies for his benefit. "I invented Moriarty."

"Why are you saying this?" And John knows that's not true, he knows, he might have been slow on the uptake the last time, their last life, but not this time! Not This Time!

"I'm a fake." Sherlock insists.

"Sherlock..." John refuses to believe that, to even consider it.

"The newspapers were right all along." Sherlock's voice is watery with tears, and there's something so wrong with that… "I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs Hudson, and Molly... in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes."

If John were in his right mind, if things weren't on the edge of going so completely to hell in the worst way possible, he might wonder at the names, at how specific it all is… but he cannot wonder at it, he hardly pays any attention to any such details. All he needs is for Sherlock to listen to him… for once in his bloody life!

"Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met... the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?" He tries to remind the younger man.

"Nobody could be that clever." The consulting detective denies.

"You could." And no matter what happens, or how wrong things go, John will never stop believing that. Will never doubt it, never doubt him.

"I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick. Just a magic trick."

"No. All right, stop it now." That's all utter bollocks! And John has half a mind to shake the younger man until he understands, once and for all, that nothing will ever make John turn his back on him, nothing at all.

Really, if all his quirks, Mycroft's meddling, the insane cases and even a bloody bomb didn't do it what makes him think that ridiculous claims from people who haven't the slightest idea of anything (and some who Should Know Better, really!) will change that?

"No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move."

"All right." Of course he knew already that something was wrong but in that moment, in that very instant John realizes that he's managed to miss something, something huge; and because of that everything is about to go to hell…

"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?"

"Do what?" Sherlock's voice is frantic, and John has no idea what else to say, what else to do. Even with all those memories he's managed to botch it all up somehow!

"This phone call – it's, er... it's my note. It's what people do, don't they – leave a note?"

For all of two seconds John really want to throw his phone away, or scream (or perhaps both), he refuses to believe that Sherlock is saying what he thinks he's saying.

"Leave a note when?" John won't accept it, he won't.

"Goodbye, John." Sherlock knows, they both do.

"No. Don't." John wants to scream, wants to wail like a banshee, instead his voice comes out so low, strangled, until he sees what follows, Sherlock, arms spread wide, falling (jumping), then he really screams: "No. SHERLOCK!"

What follows… it doesn't really register in John's mind, not at all. He knows he rushes to the building, has trouble getting there (though afterwards he cannot quite remember why). He remembers seeing the body (the blood, there's so much blood, he could be sick… except instead he's so completely numb…). And there are people all around, lots of people. They make it harder for John to approach, then pull him away immediately, and they're taking the body away. And maybe that's what should happen, or isn't it? John has honestly no idea at that point. He pretty much blacks out and knows no more.

 **xXx**

John is forced to spend the night in the hospital, sedated when he refuses to cooperate; and the next day finds himself back in Ella's office, where he hasn't been since about a month after moving in with Sherlock. Ella never liked Sherlock, disagreed with John's decision to stay, not just as flatmate, but helping him with cases too; she was convinced that what John needed to get over his past was to have a purely 'civilian' life. Which was why John decided to simply stop going to see her. It's not like he needed her, like she ever helped him in any way.

Ella tries to get him to talk, of course she does, but John refuses to cooperate. He's not there by his own will, and he has no obligation to do more than the one meeting, or to say anything at all during said meeting, so he doesn't. He just sits there for the entire session, looking at nothing, not even truly listening to Ella. She's insisting on him saying whatever he never got to tell Sherlock. As if! Those words are meant for Sherlock alone, not for anyone else, certainly not for a woman who never understood him, or cared to; who's so convinced of her own cleverness that she has never even tried to see beyond what's in her books. And yeah, that might help some people, maybe even most people, but he's never been average, and neither was Sherlock.

The session is approaching its end when something Ella says (he's no idea what, he's not paying attention any more) triggers a memory: he remembers his first heart attack, and the reason for it, the exact moment when he found out that Holmes hadn't really died at the Reichenbach Falls, that he faked his death and all Watson did in an attempt to escape 'reality' to escape the loss not only hadn't helped, it might have actually made things worse.

All the same, the memory does help. It reinvigorates him like nothing else could have. When he finally leaves Ella's office five minutes later he has a plan.

He drops by Baker Street just long enough to pack his things. He waits until Mrs Hudson is gone though, to Sherlock's funeral. She believes he'll join her there, but he won't. John has no plans of attending any funeral; because if it's fake, then there's no need for it, and if it's real… if it's real he doesn't think he's ready to handle it, he might never be.

In any case, this time he's holding onto hope. All the same, he cannot stay, which he hopes he's managed to explain right in the letter he left for Mrs. Hudson. There's not much in it, mostly excuses (not lies, not really, but still, not the whole truth either). He'll allow her to believe that he simply cannot stay in Baker Street, not with the memories, and the grief, he needs some time away, in order to move on. The truth is that while he certainly needs some time away, he has no intention of moving on… at all.

He's about to leave when, surprisingly (or perhaps not really), he finds none other than Mycroft Holmes sitting on his chair in the living room. At least it's his and not Sherlock's, John would have never stood for that; which he's sure the elder Holmes must know and is probably the reason why he chose the place he did.

"I'd have thought you to be at the cemetery," he comments, with the tone of one who wants to pretend not to care, yet is dying from curiosity.

"Shouldn't you be there as well?" John asks in return. "It's your brother's funeral, after all."

For a moment it looks like Mycroft might say something, perhaps question the nature of John's own relationship with Sherlock; except when he turns to look at the blonde, he seems to see something in John' eyes, and lets it go.

"You know what I find incredibly ironic?" John asks apropos of nothing. "Mistakes."

Mycroft arches a brow but says nothing, probably wondering if John has finally cracked.

"The fact that, no matter how hard we try, or how many times we insist on the contrary, we all end up making the same mistakes, always." John whispers, not really looking at Mycroft.

It took him a while to understand it, to accept it; but he now knows what went wrong. It wasn't the multitude of plans, most of which were absolutely pointless as he never had the chance to implement them. No, the true mistake (his, Sherlock's, and even Mycroft's) was lack of trust. Sherlock didn't trust John enough to tell him what was really going on with Moriarty, what the bastard was doing and how bad it was; Mycroft didn't trust John to have Sherlock's back when the shit hit the fan; and John himself… he didn't trust Sherlock enough to tell him the truth about his dreams, about his past, about Watson and Holmes and the other Moriarty…

They've paid for those mistakes, all of them. John can only hope that Sherlock hasn't died. Painful as it might be to think that Sherlock might have chosen to fake his own death and make John suffer through it, again; truth is John would rather believe that than deal with the prospect of his best friend, his partner his… Sherlock, being truly dead.

"Goodbye Mycroft," John declares. "Without Sherlock I have no interest in seeing you, and there's no reason for you to be interested in me."

"Sherlock would want me to make sure you're safe," Mycroft tried to insist.

Yeah, he would have. And a part of John also insists on believing that Mycroft is doing it to make sure John will be there when Sherlock returns. And he will, of course he will, but it will be in his own terms, not any of the Holmeses.

"That's not up to you any more."

His 'you' is intended for both of them, though he has no idea if Mycroft might be able to pick up on that. It doesn't matter, in the grand scheme of things. John says nothing more to Mycroft, there's really nothing else to be said. So he picks up his bag, and takes his leave. He has things to do, places to be. Because last time, when Holmes and Moriarty fell, Holmes had made sure to send Mary what would be needed to take down Moriarty's web, to make sure none of his plans would ever come to fruition. This time that hasn't happened. This time, John will be taking care of it, personally. Time to go hunting.

* * *

So... what do you think's coming next? It's all building up for what's coming up next chapter, next week. See ya then!


	3. Part 3

Hello! And sorry, I almost forgot to do this today. It totally slip my mind! But here we are now, and it's still Saturday, so still on schedule!

Now, I hope you all will enjoy this last installment of the fic. This wraps things up quite nicely I think. If you still have doubts when it's all said and done, let me know and I'll do my best to clarify things.

Also, if you haven't heard the Tenor's (feat. Lindsey Stirling) cover of "Who Wants to Live Forever?", you really, really should. I mean, my respects to Queen, but there's just something about this cover that fits in my head, and with this verse (I kept listening to it over and over as I wrote this fic).

So, having said that. Here we go! The final part of Forever!

* * *

 **Part 3.**

" _But touch my tears with your lips_

 _Touch my world with your fingertips"_

" _And we can have forever,_

 _And we can love forever._

 _Forever is our today."_

" _Who wants to live forever?_

 _Who wants to live forever?_

 _Forever is ours,"_

" _Who wants forever anyway?"_

It takes John almost three months to become aware of the fact that he's not the only one hunting down the strands of Moriarty's web; then an additional six weeks to realize who's doing the hunting exactly. The discovery shocks him enough to make him somewhat careless, almost enough to make him miss a shot… him! He's John-freaking-Three-Continents-Watson, he hasn't missed a shot in his life!

Yeah, because somehow, aside from being a doctor (surgeon actually, or at least he used to be one) and a former Army Captain for the RAMC, he also managed to become a sniper somewhere along the way. It began as a hobby, the shooting, some stress-relief; then some guys in his unit saw him, and told someone else, and then he was being offered some instruction because, as it turned out, he was actually good at it. It was never official, not sure how any of them would have even begun to explain a doctor being trained as a sniper… but still. He got to learn from one of the best, got a few tricks that proved useful both on the field, and afterwards (really, not just anyone could hope to shoot someone from one building to the next, through two window panes and in the middle of the night… he managed just fine).

In any case, that's probably why NSY has never suspected him. Despite all the times that their suspects have ended with a bullet in them, a few times outright dead, they've never suspected John. Even knowing he was in the army, somehow the fact that he's a doctor makes them believe that's all there is to him, like being a doctor somehow erases the fact that he was also a soldier, in an active war-zone. It's ridiculous; like Sherlock has said, more than a few times, people are idiots. Even geniuses, sometimes. In any case, that's also the reason why it's unlikely anyone will ever imagine him doing what he is in that very moment. Hunting down Moriarty's minions and allies, one by one. Where he can he'll find a way to turn them in to the authorities, make them pay, publicly. But there are some of them, those with so much money they've bought the local authorities, or so much power (so much blood in their hands) that no one dares move against them; those John tracks down and kills without remorse.

John Watson is not a good man, he knows that, has always known it. Even before Moriarty and the whole, bloody mess. It's ironic actually, how back in London everyone was so afraid about what Sherlock might end up doing (Donovan especially!), so convinced he'd one day end up being the one behind the corpses they had to investigate; and yet John's the one who's ended up doing exactly that. The worst part? He doesn't regret it, he doesn't think he ever will. And it's not like he's killing just because, the people he kills, they're no innocents, the exact opposite in fact; most actually deserve a lot worse than a bullet to their heads, but since he cannot trust the justice system in their cases, he's willing enough to be judge, jury and executioner where they're concerned. He'll probably have to pay for it all one day, either in this life or the next (ever since his dreams/memories he's come to accept that if things like souls and reincarnation are possible; then maybe God, heaven, and all that, might just exist as well); he knows, and he's willing to take it, because he believes in what he's doing.

It's not even about Sherlock any more; or at least, not just about him. It's about all the people who have been hurt, in one way or another, by Moriarty, and the dozens (possibly hundreds) of monsters that followed him. Last time… last time there was Mary, and Lestrade, and Scotland Yard, and the diary Holmes managed to get from Moriarty and send to his (Watson's) wife. He can still remember her smiles, how proud she'd been, being able to help take down that monster. Even if she wasn't insane enough to get in the kind of messes he and Holmes did, she was brave enough to do what she could, to refuse to back down.

John actually reconsidered looking her up. Not for any romantic interest, of course not. In this life he knows himself enough to accept that much as he might have loved her, might love her memory still… he just isn't in love with her any more. He's even accepted the fact that, if she hadn't been so accommodating where Holmes was concerned the last time, he'd have chosen him over her in the end. He wasn't ready to accept it then; and the whole mess with the Professor and the Fall made it so he didn't have to actually face those facts back then… but he has now. So, he considers looking for her to be her friend, he just knows she would be terrific at that, and who knows? Perhaps he might be able to do something good for her as well. But not yet, not until he's made sure that there's nothing left from the web that the most recent Moriarty spun.

The next six months John makes sure to do his job well, and always making sure that Sherlock, and whoever else either he, or Mycroft, have helping behind the scenes, will not catch, won't so much as find out it's him. By the end of those six months he's almost made the whole thing into an art-form, it has almost become a game, hunting down his targets, knowing Sherlock is around, getting to them before Sherlock does, without being caught. A few times he allows the younger man to handle things himself, when the target isn't too dangerous; he doesn't want the consulting detective to become too frustrated. Still, he keeps an eye on things from start to finish; which turns out to be a good thing when one particular target, one that was supposed to be easy and weak and no risk at all, pulls a knife out of nowhere and throws himself at Sherlock, intent on gutting him like a fish. Of course John could never allow that, the man is down, with a bullet through his head, before anyone can realize a shot has even been fired.

Even with that miscalculation, things are mostly going to plan. Sometimes he even manages to get the job done before Sherlock arrives; which is good because it means the younger man isn't in as much danger. The last thing they need is to have survived the one hurdle that spelled their doom in their previous life, only to somehow end up worse off this time around.

In any case, things are almost easy by then; which is the only excuse he can think of to try and explain how he managed to miss the fact that Sherlock was nowhere around for his 'hunting' for six weeks! That's how long it takes him to notice, and a day more to come up with how bad that is; right at the same time he realizes they're almost done. He's in Italy, having just witnessed a group of forgers being arrested; with their piece of the web burnt there's only one name left on the list, the worst of them all: Sebastian Moran.

John wants to curse, he wants to howl and rage. He knows there's no time, not if he wants to make sure Sherlock doesn't get killed for jumping the gun. The bloody bastard! He has no idea who he's dealing with. Not like John. He knows Sebastian, of course he does, he's the one who taught John how to be a sniper! He's also the one who shot the bullet that ended John's military career, and almost his life.

"Goddammit Sherlock, once I find you I'm going to make sure you aren't out of my sight again, ever!" John curses to himself as he rushes to the nearest airport, he has a flight to catch.

 **xXx**

If Sherlock hadn't made a mess of things, John's first option for dealing with Moran would have been to stalk him for a few weeks, maybe a month, learn his routines and find a way to put a bullet in his head without ever being less than ten yards (hopefully twenty) from him, much less in the same room. If it weren't for the collateral damage he might have even been all for blowing the place up and be done with it; especially after discovering where Moran is holed up and how difficult it'd be to snipe him there.

In any case, Sherlock has made a mess of things, so there's really no point in John losing his mind over what he would have done. He tries to come up with a new plan, but the worry for the idiotic consulting detective makes keeping a clear head next to impossible. So, in the end, John decides that aside from a basic strategy there's really only one thing he can do: wing it.

It takes John all of four days to be reasonably certain that everyone in Moran's more recent hide-out is guilty of a variety of crimes, the list of most of them which includes several accounts of murder. That's enough to allow him to make up his mind regarding the first part of his plan, and thus he spends the next two days stalking through the shadows, killing Moran's minions one by one. It's not an easy thing to do, especially focused as he is on not being found; it's until early the second day that anyone realizes something's wrong, half-way through it that they understand exactly what is happening, and still it isn't until early on the third (a full week since John left Italy for Serbia) that John is found. That's when the second part of the plan (the one that's more improvising than an actual plan) comes in.

He's not sure how it happens exactly. One moment he's walking down a hallway, looking for Moran (or quite possibly Sherlock) when he hears a shout, one his instinct recognizes before his own mind does; the shock is enough he doesn't hear the man coming from behind him quite on time. He manages to dodge the object (a pipe? A tire iron? He has no idea!), mostly. At least the Serbian doesn't hit him in the head, instead John ends up taking the hit high on his left arm. That's almost worse, the pain hits him suddenly, white hot and excruciating, one of his legs gives up beneath him, the psychosomatic limp coming back, abruptly, with a vengeance. It causes him to half fall, unable to defend himself from the punch to the stomach. And it's not even just the hit, somehow, the pain in his shoulder drops him into not one but two flashbacks, the two times he was shot while in Afghanistan. It's so bad that he has no notion of himself for several minutes. All in his mind is a mix of heat, sand, blood and pain.

Only one thing… one person, could possibly break through all that, and that's exactly what happens. One moment John is lost in the double memory of nearly dying in the Afghan desert… and then there's a voice crying out. A voice he knows to his very core… were he to lose all his memories, his heart, his very soul would still be able to recognize that voice…

There are no words, but they're not needed, not then. John barely manages to bite his tongue to keep from crying out Sherlock's name, even as his eyes turn instinctively in the right direction. And there he is, tall, so skinny he almost looks sickly, with shaggy pale brown hair (an awful dye-job, really) and murky brown contacts, his skin is very pale, except for the places where its turning black and blue already. John's protectiveness rises up a few notches at that.

"John Watson…" Sebastian practically hisses, looking him up and down. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, after finding this one."

He signals to where Sherlock is standing, back against the wall. Looking at him more closely John can tell he's more hurt than the bruising on his face and arm alone would indicate. He also has to wonder if Moran managed to realize what was going on, that they were coming for him; perhaps they acted too fast, in their rush to go back home, the speed with which Moriarty's old 'associates' fell might have tipped Moran off. Either that or Sherlock did something stupid. Not that it changes anything in that moment, they are where they are. Sebastian Moran is the last piece of Moriarty's web they need to deal with, to make sure nothing will be left of the empire Moriarty created, so they can go back home, so they will be safe (Sherlock especially).

John's mind begins working a mile a minute, trying to come up with some kind of plan, even as he stays where he is, on his knees, a few feet from Moran, near the middle of the room. One of the mercs is holding him down by his right arm… probably believing its his dominant one, people can be so stupid sometimes… it also probably helps that the merc might be expecting his left arm to be useless after how he reacted to the first hit. And perhaps, under normal circumstances, that might be the case; not when Sherlock is involved though. Sherlock needs him, and nothing will stop John from doing whatever might be necessary to get them both out of the mess they're in, certainly not a couple of flashbacks, phantom pains and psychosomatic limps, bad as they might be. Sherlock will always be more important than any of that.

Moran begins a very long, very convoluted speech, which John pays no mind to; focusing instead on finding a way to turn the situation in his favour. Nothing comes to him until the merc notices his lack of attention, twisting his right arm in an attempt to force him to do so.

John's reaction is more instinctive than planned. He follows the momentum of the merc's motion, spinning on his right knee and twisting himself in such a way that the merc has to either let go or fall over him. He chooses to let go, though not before over-reaching enough that it's laughably easy for John to sweep his feet from under him, following with a hit to his temple, hard enough to knock him out. Even as he does that with one arm his other is already reaching for the knife he kept in his boot, which he uses to cut down the other two mercs in the room as they rush to try and take him down.

The moment he's sure they're not rising again John straightens up, spinning on one heel to face Moran again. All in all, the whole thing took no more than a minute, tops.

While he would have never expected Sebastian to do nothing through it all, it still takes him by surprise when he sees the bastard standing on practically the same spot where he was a minute prior, except Sherlock is standing before him, and there is a knife being pressed to the side of is neck, dangerously close to his carotid.

"Be very careful Watson, one wrong move and I slice his neck open," Sebastian announces with a dark sneer.

As if John needed him to say anything at all…

Still, Sebastian has managed to forget something very important; which is ironic considering the key part he played in the whole thing:

"You've made your last mistake Seb," he states, voice even, colder than ice and quite possibly sharper than the blade in Moran's hand.

"Really, what was that?" The sniper is mocking him.

It's ridiculous really. In the years since being dishonourably discharged, since becoming Jim Moriarty's ally (or whatever the psychopathic genius saw him as), Sebastian Moran has managed to forget what he once considered the most important rule: he's become too overconfident… is either overestimating himself, underestimating John, or both. He thinks that because he managed to put a bullet in John once, he won; never stopping to think that John survived, and not only that, he managed to thrive… and that it was all in no small part thanks to the very man whose life Sebastian is threatening in that moment… Yeah, not the best decision Moran has ever made. Then again, Moriarty was supposed to be a genius, and he made the exact same mistake (and if the bastard hadn't put a bullet in his own head, John would have done it for him).

"You've forgotten that I never miss." John says simply.

In a single, smooth motion, he raises his left arm, strong and steady (no hesitation, no phantom pain and no tremor whatsoever), holding the gun he relieved one of the dead mercs from earlier. He takes but a fraction of a second to aim, shooting before Moran can fully understand the way the scales have tipped. The bullet hits him before he can even think of pressing the knife any closer to Sherlock's throat.

And just like that, it's over.

 **xXx**

Neither man says a word for the longest time. Not as they leave Moran's hideout, walk a couple of miles down the road, to where John hid the jeep he rented in Belgrade beneath some brush. Not while they ride said jeep back to the city, John checking them into a hotel using a fake ID. Not even when they finally enter the bedroom and John heads straight for the bathroom, never once letting go of his bag. Sherlock just follows him, hesitant, almost afraid of the too-quiet John Watson. It's not like he didn't know what John's capable of; he isn't as much of an idiot as NSY, and even Mycroft sometimes, he knew John had killed before, in Afghanistan and in London, that he'd killed to protect the detective… still, there is something about the way John looked when he pulled the trigger on Moran… Sherlock has no idea what it was exactly, but it rattled him.

"Take off your shirt and sit down, let me look at you," John orders.

The tone is such… Sherlock cannot help but obey, without even being conscious of it. In seconds he finds himself shirtless, sitting over the closed toilet, the former army doctor inspecting the scratches and bruises all over him. They're not too bad, if he says so himself, the worst being a big, deep bruise on his side, he's lucky no ribs were broken with that particular kick (and he knows they aren't, he's had previous experience with broken ribs and remembers well enough what those feel like). That one and the deep bruise on one side of his face, from high on his temple, all the way down the outside of his cheekbone, are the worst ones.

Still saying nothing at all, John retrieves first-aid supplies from one of the side-pockets of his knapsack and begins to methodically clean and bandage Sherlock's wounds.

"You knew," Sherlock blurts out, more words spilling out almost immediately. "In Moran's hideout, you weren't surprised by my presence there. You knew I was alive, knew I was there…" His head whips up so fast he probably gets whiplash, as he deduces something else. "It's you! You're the one who's been hunting down Moriarty's associates."

John waits until Sherlock finishes talking (practically babbling by that point) to say anything.

"I suspected practically since I woke up from sedation, when Ella kept trying to make me talk." He snorts at the memory. "Some things just… they didn't fit. Really, you're too proud and too full of yourself to do something as stupid as taking your own life. You don't care what most people think, so it couldn't have been about your reputation; and if it had been about what those at NSY were saying you'd have taken it all as a challenge, and a reason to verbally eviscerate them even more than usual."

The consulting detective cannot help himself, he smirks; but John isn't done yet.

"Which meant something else was going on," the blonde continues. "Mycroft sold me some bullshit story about a deal with Moriarty going wrong, how he accidentally sold you out. I'll admit that at the time I was worried and stressed out enough that I believed it. It was until later that I realized that, as much of a tosser as I might think he is, he's as likely to betray you as I am. Which, again, meant something else had to be going on." He snorts suddenly. "Also him not going to your so-called funeral? A dead give away." He scoffs. "I thought you Holmeses were supposed to be geniuses!"

"And you?" Sherlock cannot help but blurt out. "Why did you not show?"

"Me?" John eyes him carefully, an almost predatory smile on his face. "Don't you know? I was so overcome by grief I couldn't go anywhere. Not until I packed my bags and left London completely, unable to stay in Baker Street any more."

"And began hunting Moriarty's allies, why?" Sherlock wants, needs to know that.

"I might not have been good enough for you to trust me with what was really going on, to trust me to have your back when things went to hell. I could still do this, though. I'm a good shot, always have been."

"It was never about trust."

"Yes it was. You didn't trust me enough, I didn't trust you enough, Mycroft trusted no one at all and it all went to hell. Not like I wasn't expecting things to get a tad messy but still…"

"He had snipers on you!"

Sherlock's shout is so sudden, and so… raw, it shuts John instantly. All he can do then is stare at the younger man, not knowing what to say at all.

"You, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, one for each. If I did not jump, you all died."

For several seconds John did nothing except stare at Sherlock, seemingly trying to wrap his mind around the new piece of information; to try and decide how it affected what he knew beforehand. Nothing like that had happened before… well, not quite. The Professor had threatened him and Mary, that was true, they'd almost gotten killed on that bloody train! But still, far as he knew that threat was in no way connected with what happened on that balcony in Switzerland days later! Except… that would be just like Holmes, wouldn't it? For him to weigh the risks and decide he'd rather take the chance himself than let Watson be at risk…

And yet, as right as that sounds in John's head, there's one additional variable this time. John honestly has no idea how Holmes managed to survive the fall from that freaking balcony and into the waterfall, that was quite the miracle and yet… and yet that was nothing compared to jumping off a rooftop, 'landing' on the concrete and surviving. John can remember seeing it happen, he didn't see the detective actually hit the ground, but still; saw him falling, saw him on the side-walk, saw all that blood… Sherlock managing to do something like that, and walk away… it cannot have been just good-luck. There had to have been others involved. Others, like Mycroft and… the witnesses? And Molly! Because she signed Sherlock's death certificate, so of course she knew. A part of John wants to feel hurt, does feel hurt, that Sherlock trusted Molly when he didn't trust John himself… suddenly her inclusion in that list of names the consulting detective gave the day of his 'Fall' makes a lot more sense.

John isn't quite sure if he should be grateful or horrified that Sherlock chose to take that fall (regardless of any plans he might have had) rather than risk their lives; he also cannot let go of his sadness, his disappointment over the lack of trust. Because it's no longer just that Sherlock didn't tell him that things were that bad… it's that he made a plan, and never even considered making John a part of it.

"John…?" Sherlock can see all the emotions running through John, in his stance, which keeps growing tenser, in his eyes, which keep growing darker… it's not good.

"Did you ever think… ever consider, even just for one second to… to trust me?" The blonde voices the question after what seems like forever.

"This is not a matter of trust John…" Sherlock tries to pacify him.

Which is absolutely ridiculous, because Sherlock has never cared enough to pacify anyone… except John isn't just anyone, is he?

"Just answer the god-damned question Sherlock!" John practically roars, throwing the bloodied gauze aside and stalking out of the bathroom.

"No!" Sherlock responds, jumping after him. "No, I didn't."

That declaration is more than enough to blow all the wind out of John's sails. What can he possibly say to that? Sherlock's said enough already.

"I see." He lets out a tired breath. "Guess I should have known…"

"John…" Sherlock begins, quietly, hesitantly.

"It's okay Sherlock." It's not, and it'll never be again. "Lets just finish here so we can leave this freaking country already."

"So we can go home…?" the consulting detective asks hopefully.

"I… I don't know," John admits, busying himself with repacking his supplies, never once turning to look at the other man.

"What…?" Sherlock is in shock by that. "But John… London… Baker Street… Moriarty's web is gone, we can go home now."

"You can go home, yes."

"We… we can go home John."

"I… I don't know if I can do it Sherlock." They cannot possibly just go back, make as if nothing happened, like they can go back to how things were before, not when he doesn't trust John…

"You belong there John." The younger man does his best to insist. "You belong at Baker Street, you… you belong with me."

"Do I? How Sherlock? How can I possibly belong where I'm not wanted? Not really. Where I'm not trusted?"

"I do trust you!"

"No you don't! You didn't trust me about this. You didn't trust me to have your back when things went to hell. You trusted Molly above me!"

"Because I couldn't risk your life! Your life is much, much more valuable than Molly's, or Mycroft's, or anyone else's… certainly more than mine."

John's eyes open very wide, he cannot believe what he's just heard. It's so… so ridiculous, so stupid so… so Sherlock.

"Oh you bloody idiot!" he cries out in disbelief and a burst of near-hysteric laughter.

The consulting detective never gets the chance to complain about the insult, before he can say a single word his mouth is suddenly very busy, right as his breath is stolen from him in a kiss.

 **xXx**

" _A few words may suffice to tell the little that remains. Any attempt at finding the bodies was absolutely hopeless. They're still there, deep down in that dreadful cauldron of swirling water and seething foam, alive for all time. The most dangerous criminal and foremost champion of the law of their generation. I shall ever regard him as the best and the wisest man whom I've ever known." He let out a sigh._

 _He was Watson right then, sitting on dirt, grass and leaves, caring little for the state his clothes would end up in. Two graves laid before him and when he closed his eyes he could almost make believe that he was reading the words in that book to the ones there, like they were alive to listen to him; even though they truly weren't, and one hadn't lived to see him ever write that book. The last book he ever wrote…_

 _It was late by the time he decided enough was enough. He got on his feet slowly and, after some consideration, left the book on his hands on the dirt, between the two gravestones. It's not like he'd need it after the next day (it's not like he'd ever needed it, not really, he knew every single word he'd written in it, as doing so had been his own form of catharsis after the mess in Switzerland). Still, it was time to leave it behind, leave all behind._

" _Good Bye my dearest wife, my perfect omi…" he whispered, pressing the fingers of his left hand to his lips, and then those same fingers to the top of each gravestone, one at a time; though he lingered on the last one, the one bearing His name: Sherlock Holmes. "Farewell my truest love. May we meet each other again… some day…"_

"You were talking in your sleep."

Those are the first words John hears Sherlock say. They're still laying on the same bed they fell asleep on late the night before (might have been technically earlier that morning, but anyway). Nothing happened, not really. Truth is that while John doesn't quite believe Mycroft's and Irene's insinuations about the consulting detective being a virgin, the blonde also doesn't think the younger man is quite ready for that. So much has happened to them since they left London… but John can be patient. And he knows that he needs to focus on what Sherlock is saying…

"Heard anything interesting?" he quips.

He doesn't remember what he dreamt, not right then. Whatever might have been in his mind vanished the moment he laid eyes on the gorgeous blue-green-golden orbs of the man before him. Truth is, the older man might have tried stealing a kiss already, if it weren't for the way that beautiful brow is furrowing right then. Something's wrong. He sits up, never taking his eyes off Sherlock and is about to ask what's wrong when the consulting detective speaks:

"I shall ever regard him as the best and the wisest man whom I have ever known," the dark-haired man recites, emotionless, eyes fixed straight on John's own.

The ex army-doctor freezes, just for a second, but he knows what he was dreaming, and not just dreaming, but remembering. And it probably isn't surprising considering everything that's happened recently, everything that happened just the day prior. But still!

"It's… ah…" John takes a deep breath. "It's something that I had in my head, that I considered saying at your… ah… your funeral."

It's not even a lie, not really, he would have said that, or something similar enough, if he'd ever really considered going to the farce of a funeral. In any case, he gets a handful of seconds to believe that Sherlock will accept that, will not press, and then…

"I've read those words before," the younger man announces. "In a book…"

"Well, I suppose that means I'm not very original…" John tries to excuse himself though he knows, instinctively, that it's already too late for that.

"A book called 'A Game of Shadows', written by one John H. Watson," Sherlock cuts him off.

The blonde simply has no words with which to reply to that.

"I'd ask how you managed to read that book, when I know for a fact that, while quite famous at the time, after the first World War interest was lost in Watson's works, less than a handful of copies are left of most of his works, and that particular book… that one I believe there are only two preserved copies left: Mycroft has one, as our family kept the whole collection, to be expected considering they were about an ancestor of ours; the other took me months to track down and acquire. And it wasn't cheap." Sherlock states evenly.

"Why did you?" John cannot help but question. "Track it down, I mean."

"I met a man once, a month before you and I first met, he claimed his name to be Ian Morstan," the consulting detective answers honestly. "He looked very old. Mycroft had an odd interest in him. He told me his story, more than a little insane, and I helped him get away from my brother's minions. Later on I tracked him down, he'd died by then. I always knew the name he gave me to have been fake. Still, it was quite a surprise when I learned his real name. Wanna guess what that name was exactly?"

The ex-army doctor doesn't reply. Truth is, he's no idea what to say.

"John Hamish Watson," the younger man finishes. "Interesting, wouldn't you say? An ancestor of yours perhaps? Or something more?"

That one John definitely researched, at some point. As it turned out he was descended from his name-sake, somewhat. Not directly, no, because that man's only son died as a baby, not even a week old. No, but as it turned out, that John's brother: Harry Watson, married and had children, he and his own Harry (his sister, Harriet) were descended from him. Much like the current Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes were descended from the old Mycroft… And yet, it isn't just that, is it? There's more, he knows there is. John can feel it at his very core…

"Why only one or the other?" The words begin spilling from his mouth before the blonde can think better of it. "Why not both?"

Sherlock just blinks, staring at him. He looks so lost… in that moment John wants nothing more than to embrace him, never let him go. But no, not yet. Not until Sherlock knows the truth, all of it, until he understands… and John hasn't the slightest idea if Sherlock is even capable of understanding the mess that is John's life (lives!) but he cannot just ignore it, it wouldn't be right. So he will try, and he will hope for the best.

John knows there are several ways he could spin the story. The old John was, in fact, his ancestor, it's quite interesting that they happened to meet, like their namesakes. And yet, while that isn't exactly a lie, it doesn't feel like truth either. Doesn't feel right. And John refuses to lie to the love of his life (lives!).

So he tells the truth, the whole truth. He tells Sherlock about his current life, his childhood, his high-school friend: Clara, and how she eventually became his sister-in-law, about going to Med-school, joining the RAMC, his time in Afghanistan, getting shot, practically bleeding out on those freaking sands… to wake up in a body that was but wasn't his, in a room he'd never seen, under the (indirect) care of a man who shared a name with one he knew more than a century prior. Tells him about the old Watson, his time with the other Holmes, their adventures, Mary, the wedding, the not-honeymoon, Professor Moriarty, Switzerland, the Fall… Mary's death, the loss of Ian, Finley, the cryogenic experiment, waking up over a century later, finding out everything that happened, the huge mistakes, the four weeks he spent in Mycroft's property, the stroll through Regent's Park, and then arriving to Baker Street, meeting the young Sherlock Holmes…

The consulting detective gets off the bed at some point, takes to pacing across the room through most of John's story. But it's until the story reaches its conclusion, as the younger man stares at the blonde with an expression so completely… empty, that John knows something is most definitely wrong.

"Is that the only reason?"

"What…?" John has no idea what's going on.

"Why you agreed to meet me that day, why you even stayed after everything I did to irritate, annoy and downright insult you? Did you do it for some sort of… atonement? Or you were expecting me to be him? The other one?"

John jumps off the bed in an instant, propelled by the intense desire to deny everything Sherlock has just said. Except… he cannot find the words. How can he even begin to explain things to Sherlock the right way? How when he can barely understand it himself? All he feels, deep inside, in his heart, in his very soul…

He has no words, and in the end he decides that maybe words are pointless. So he walks around the bed, and before the consulting detective can deduce what's going exactly, he pulls him by the back of his neck, taking his mouth in a kiss. It's a hell of a kiss, so intense… and yet John holds back as much as he can, he doesn't want to overwhelm the younger man after all. Or at least, not until he has left no doubt in his mind about what exactly it is that he wants.

They do not break off until oxygen is starting to become an issue. Sherlock practically whimpers as they separate, and John gets the impression that the only reason he's still standing is the fact that he has the wall at his back, and John completely pressed against his front; then again, John isn't that much better.

"Can you really not feel it Sherlock?" he asks, very quietly, practically against the consulting detective's lips. "This… between us. The energy? The bond?"

Sherlock is so much a man of science, John doesn't have much hope about being able to explain to him (and have him believe) all about souls, reincarnation, soulmates… and yet, he cannot believe that the younger man cannot feel the way the air practically vibrates when they stand close together. The two of them… they're meant to be together, always have been, always will be, and John needs to make Sherlock understand that. Otherwise he risks losing the consulting detective, and that's one prospect he cannot even contemplate.

"John…?" For perhaps the first time in his life, Sherlock appears to be completely speechless.

"I don't expect you to be anyone other than exactly who you are, Sherlock," John assures him. "I fell in love with you long before I understood enough of my dreams to make the connection between the two lives, the two John Watsons. Even if you had a different name, if we had met differently, I'd still love you. This… I cannot tell you that Holmes and Watson do not matter, because that would be a lie. And I will not lie to you."

"What is the truth then?" The consulting detective practically challenges him.

"That I love you," John says simply.

And it really is that simple, in the end. Holmes and Watson matter, yes, but they're the past. They had their chance, and while they might have done some things right, they did a lot wrong. And it wasn't even about Mary, though that was enough of a complication. No, it all went back to their mistakes, all of which would be summarized in one: lack of trust. Those two hadn't trusted each other enough, to share their plans, to believe that they'd be together again; and that lack pushed them into making decisions that kept them apart, until the end.

John and Sherlock… they made the exact same mistake. They did not trust each other enough. However, unlike their namesakes (their ancestors, their past-lives?) they did not let things end like that. They have another chance, one their old selves could have only dreamed of; they cannot let it go to waste. John certainly won't.

To John's honest surprise, it's Sherlock who takes the initiative then, as he finally moves his hand from where he'd kept them until then, braced against the wall at his back, to instead cup John's face, lowering his own head to claim the older man's lips in a deep, filthy kiss.

Again, the need for oxygen makes it necessary for them to pull away eventually, leaving them gasping and panting. John holding onto Sherlock's bare shoulders while the consulting detective stares at him with the kind of intensity the doctor has only seen aimed at a particularly interesting crime scene. It makes him shiver.

"What do you see?" John asks, voice husky.

"Everything, that is my curse," Sherlock replies, almost automatically. "And today, my blessing."

John doesn't need him to clarify what that means, it becomes quite clear just a couple of seconds later, as the two are kissing again, divesting each other of their clothes (what they didn't take off the night prior, in order to sleep comfortably) on their way to the bed.

London (and Mycroft) awaits them. But not just yet. No, today is just for them. For the two men who've found each other once again, through time and space and a whole lifetime… and in that moment things like reincarnation, souls, soulmates, they don't really matter. What's the point of focusing on what might have been, or might yet be?

The past, the future, they make for nice stories, but in the end, they're not what matters. It's the present that truly matters. The past is done, and the future cannot be predicted. What they share now, they shall fight to keep, every day, as long as they're able. And they'll never promise each other forever, because such amount of time is irrelevant, it cannot be measured, it's not realistic, not for men who, like them, understand the risks in their lives; all that matters in the end, is Today, each day, every day. Who wants forever anyway?

* * *

So, who wants forever? Actually, usually I'm all for forever, but I don't know, there was something about this story, I felt that forever just didn't drive the message in, so I decided to twist things around. Forever isn't real, you cannot promise things will last forever because nothing does, nothing can, not for real. But you can promise this moment, and every moment you can control; and, for you, the sum of all those moments may become your own version of forever in the end. So... too convoluted?

In any case, my own twisted ramblings aside, I hope you all enjoyed this story. Go Johnlock!

P.S. Don't forget to seek me out next auction!

P.P.S. If you want to invite me to one or something I'm also open to that. In all the fandoms I write.


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